Is it a sign of incompetent parenting to dislike hosting birthday parties? No, not hosting actually—planning. I do not enjoy planning birthday parties. There, I’ve admitted it. I actually get stressed induced pain in my neck from worrying about creating the perfect birthday for a 6 year old. Our most vivid birthday party memories seem to center on a guest becoming ill—including a little 5 year old who threw up while eating pizza— or the weather playing havoc with our best laid plans— the January snow play party on a 60 degree day with marshmallows in the place of snowballs or the 30 degree May carnival party covered in snow.
Each year I hope that my daughters will say, “this year mom let’s just have a family party.” Then I won’t have to happily think up a plan, worry if someone is being unintentionally excluded, decorate with enthusiasm, and fret over whether everyone will like the chosen activities. Don’t get me wrong, I do love celebrations, I just am not a party planner.
So how excited was I when my older daughter asked if she could plan her own birthday celebration?
“Do you need me to do anything?”
“No thanks mom.”
“How about pick up pizza?”
“Oh, that would be great.”
“Make breakfast?”
“Sure, thanks!”
And that was it! She invited eight girls for a sleepover, everyone came and they self-entertained from playing basketball to walking around the block at midnight. They watched a movie and of course, talked, A LOT! By and large I kept my ears open and my mouth closed—a parenting tip I picked up from a friend which has served me well. Well that is as long as I follow through on the mouth closed part, which I admit, I sometimes forget.
Stories told and untold
I have been sitting working on putting together some notes on my children’s ancestry while I listen to the news on NPR. A large portion of the news is focused on the devastation in China. I listen, stunned, to the personal, tragic stories of individuals waiting as workers dig through rubble looking for children, parents and other family members. The contrast between my cataloguing of my ancestors’ lives and the family trees that have been brought to an end in the span of only moments is stark. So many people lost their lives and so many people have only one child, that whole lineages ended abruptly; a forest of family trees has been felled.
While as a listener I cannot feel the depth of the emotions the waiting and hoping families feel, I am taken through the ups and downs of uncertainty, hope, dismissal, faith, despair and tragedy. Would that the photos I have of my ancestors in the 19th and 20th centuries, come to life and tell me their stories of hope and despair, uncertainty and joy. In the absence of oral history, I listen to the stories of my ancestors through bits and pieces of newspaper articles or obituaries printed decades ago. Simultaneously, through the news traveling half way around the world, I hear the silence of future generations, whose stories will never be written.
While as a listener I cannot feel the depth of the emotions the waiting and hoping families feel, I am taken through the ups and downs of uncertainty, hope, dismissal, faith, despair and tragedy. Would that the photos I have of my ancestors in the 19th and 20th centuries, come to life and tell me their stories of hope and despair, uncertainty and joy. In the absence of oral history, I listen to the stories of my ancestors through bits and pieces of newspaper articles or obituaries printed decades ago. Simultaneously, through the news traveling half way around the world, I hear the silence of future generations, whose stories will never be written.
Quintessential Grandmother
I have been fortunate to have known and called my own not one, but two quintessential grandmothers. The second came into my life just as the first departed. I imagine their lives as young mothers were quite different— for starters one was a devout Lutheran and the second a conservative Jew. One was the youngest of 5 girls and went on to college. The other was the oldest of 4 children and needed to give up both finishing high school as well as going to college to earn money for her family. Yet their commonalities in loving their grandchildren far exceeded their differences in upbringing and religion. Perhaps it is no coincidence that they shared the name Frances.
My second grandmother Frances was not a biologic grandmother; she was my husband’s grandmother. Yet she treated me as she did all of her granddaughter-in-laws—as fully and completely as every one of her grandchildren. And the fact that I did not share her religious faith was never an issue with her—what mattered to her was getting to know who I was as an individual and hearing all of the details of my life. Her interest in my life was focused—she always looked right into my eyes as we spoke in person and while she was interested in her grandson and great-grandchildren (my husband and children), when talking with me she would always first focus her interest on how I was spending my time. Her hazel eyes would peer directly into mine and seem to read my soul, discerning any bumps in its fabric.
The first time I met her was shortly after my husband and I began dating. As the family matriarch, she hosted weekly Sunday brunches. The rounded table could always fit one more family member—I’d use the broader term guest, but these events were strictly for family and I was considered family from the first time my husband-to-be introduced me to his grandmother. That first brunch I was seated in the middle of the table, surrounded by many family members I had yet to get to know. I ate a bite or two of Montreal bagel dressed with ‘pull-cheese’ and homemade strawberry jam, passed on the gefilte fish (I was still a neophyte at dating a Jew) and managed to snag a couple of sliced tomatoes. I also recall a plate of slice cucumbers which I presumed to be another Jewish delicacy. Turned out that wasn’t the case at all—simply a case of the youngest cousin having a limited gastronomic repertoire.
While I was a little nervous at being the newest member and only person at the table unfamiliar with gefilte fish, my minimal intake was more influenced by where I sat than by a nervous stomach. Surrounded by more than a dozen hungry family members— cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, sister and the radiantly smiling grandmother, I barely had time for a bite between requests to pass the pull cheese to the right or tuna to the left or cucumbers back to the right. Frances gently pointed out to me that she recommended that I avoid the middle seat on future Sundays if I was at all interested in eating.
When her first and second great grandchild came along she was simply beside herself with excitement. Holding her great grandchild for the first time (and every time for that matter), she focused deeply, looking into the baby’s eyes, her own eyes twinkling merrily, “What can I say? She is absolutely delicious.” This was the first time I had heard my child called delicious—this seems to be somewhat of a Jewish habit, or at least a Canadian Jewish habit. While hearing a gastronomic term applied to your child might seem disconcerting from anyone else, from Frances it was the most heartfelt term of endearment which brought tears to my eyes every time she used this turn of phrase—which she did on every occasion she saw one of my girls or even a photo of them. A woman of moderate means she always had a gift for the children whenever she saw them. Frequently the gifts were play parasols. By the time my girls were 5 they had a dozen parasols between them that were favorite playthings.
Frances was a friend to everyone. I loved her stories of her mechanic who made house calls, her shop customers who took her out to lunch and in later years Lincoln, her handyman, who would sit down and share an afternoon break with her. And these were only a few of the countless individuals whom Frances made feel special with her focused attention. Frances left a lasting love here for all of us to share in the friendship and fellowship she shared with each of us individually. I am lucky to have been a granddaughter to a second Grandma Frances for the past 20 years; I will miss her.
My second grandmother Frances was not a biologic grandmother; she was my husband’s grandmother. Yet she treated me as she did all of her granddaughter-in-laws—as fully and completely as every one of her grandchildren. And the fact that I did not share her religious faith was never an issue with her—what mattered to her was getting to know who I was as an individual and hearing all of the details of my life. Her interest in my life was focused—she always looked right into my eyes as we spoke in person and while she was interested in her grandson and great-grandchildren (my husband and children), when talking with me she would always first focus her interest on how I was spending my time. Her hazel eyes would peer directly into mine and seem to read my soul, discerning any bumps in its fabric.
The first time I met her was shortly after my husband and I began dating. As the family matriarch, she hosted weekly Sunday brunches. The rounded table could always fit one more family member—I’d use the broader term guest, but these events were strictly for family and I was considered family from the first time my husband-to-be introduced me to his grandmother. That first brunch I was seated in the middle of the table, surrounded by many family members I had yet to get to know. I ate a bite or two of Montreal bagel dressed with ‘pull-cheese’ and homemade strawberry jam, passed on the gefilte fish (I was still a neophyte at dating a Jew) and managed to snag a couple of sliced tomatoes. I also recall a plate of slice cucumbers which I presumed to be another Jewish delicacy. Turned out that wasn’t the case at all—simply a case of the youngest cousin having a limited gastronomic repertoire.
While I was a little nervous at being the newest member and only person at the table unfamiliar with gefilte fish, my minimal intake was more influenced by where I sat than by a nervous stomach. Surrounded by more than a dozen hungry family members— cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, sister and the radiantly smiling grandmother, I barely had time for a bite between requests to pass the pull cheese to the right or tuna to the left or cucumbers back to the right. Frances gently pointed out to me that she recommended that I avoid the middle seat on future Sundays if I was at all interested in eating.
When her first and second great grandchild came along she was simply beside herself with excitement. Holding her great grandchild for the first time (and every time for that matter), she focused deeply, looking into the baby’s eyes, her own eyes twinkling merrily, “What can I say? She is absolutely delicious.” This was the first time I had heard my child called delicious—this seems to be somewhat of a Jewish habit, or at least a Canadian Jewish habit. While hearing a gastronomic term applied to your child might seem disconcerting from anyone else, from Frances it was the most heartfelt term of endearment which brought tears to my eyes every time she used this turn of phrase—which she did on every occasion she saw one of my girls or even a photo of them. A woman of moderate means she always had a gift for the children whenever she saw them. Frequently the gifts were play parasols. By the time my girls were 5 they had a dozen parasols between them that were favorite playthings.
Frances was a friend to everyone. I loved her stories of her mechanic who made house calls, her shop customers who took her out to lunch and in later years Lincoln, her handyman, who would sit down and share an afternoon break with her. And these were only a few of the countless individuals whom Frances made feel special with her focused attention. Frances left a lasting love here for all of us to share in the friendship and fellowship she shared with each of us individually. I am lucky to have been a granddaughter to a second Grandma Frances for the past 20 years; I will miss her.
The Benefit of Road Construction
If you’re going to get lost in Boston, or even misplaced, try to make it in the Back Bay. For one the grid layout of the streets—despite the numerous one way roads—at least makes turning around the block possible—a feat less likely anywhere else in the city. But equally valuable is the proliferation of construction. And with construction, comes, you guessed it, the ubiquitous police officer and lots of traffic The two elements are more often than not frustrating to the driver attempting to make forward progress, but to the misplaced driver they are invaluable. The construction makes it easy to stop without holding up traffic, while rolling down your window to ask directions of aforementioned officers is also easily accomplished.
I was in just such a situation as I was looking for the entrance to the Mass Pike that I know exists by Copley somewhere. In any case, I had been driving on Storrow Drive East looking for the Mass Ave exit which also heads right to a Pike entrance. Driving along, carefully reading the road signs, I saw not one that indicated an exit for either Mass Ave or the direction for the Pike. I don’t know what the signs actually did say—getting back to that point was certainly a time consuming task not worth the undertaking— but I do know what the signs did NOT say. There was no sign indicating to exit here for the Mass Pike or I-90 (a large, well traveled road for locals and out-of-towners alike) nor was there any sign indicating to exit here for Massachusetts Avenue which clearly ran directly overhead. Some sign engineer decided that mentioning destination names like Cambridge would somehow be more helpful than indicating the names of streets! Who are these designers anyhow?
So I exited into the Back Bay, knowing I could easily turn around there, and was grateful for the plethora of construction sites with their requisite assortment of officers watching the heavy machinery at work. For once, I was happy to be stopped right by a construction site and happily took the advice of the amused officer who directed me to the Mass Pike entrance which, while not the closest in distance, was certainly the easiest to drive to, requiring only left turns onto 1 way streets. Approaching from this new direction I was happily greeted by large, hard to miss signs proclaiming the Mass Pike entrance. Likely they were constructed there as a warning to keep errant motorists from accidentally entering the Pike rather than directing out-of-towners back to whence they came. Regardless, I heeded the signs and was soon on my way west.
I was in just such a situation as I was looking for the entrance to the Mass Pike that I know exists by Copley somewhere. In any case, I had been driving on Storrow Drive East looking for the Mass Ave exit which also heads right to a Pike entrance. Driving along, carefully reading the road signs, I saw not one that indicated an exit for either Mass Ave or the direction for the Pike. I don’t know what the signs actually did say—getting back to that point was certainly a time consuming task not worth the undertaking— but I do know what the signs did NOT say. There was no sign indicating to exit here for the Mass Pike or I-90 (a large, well traveled road for locals and out-of-towners alike) nor was there any sign indicating to exit here for Massachusetts Avenue which clearly ran directly overhead. Some sign engineer decided that mentioning destination names like Cambridge would somehow be more helpful than indicating the names of streets! Who are these designers anyhow?
So I exited into the Back Bay, knowing I could easily turn around there, and was grateful for the plethora of construction sites with their requisite assortment of officers watching the heavy machinery at work. For once, I was happy to be stopped right by a construction site and happily took the advice of the amused officer who directed me to the Mass Pike entrance which, while not the closest in distance, was certainly the easiest to drive to, requiring only left turns onto 1 way streets. Approaching from this new direction I was happily greeted by large, hard to miss signs proclaiming the Mass Pike entrance. Likely they were constructed there as a warning to keep errant motorists from accidentally entering the Pike rather than directing out-of-towners back to whence they came. Regardless, I heeded the signs and was soon on my way west.
Suggestions if you travel to Costa Rica
1) Check the exchange rates before you travel. Our best deal was using local ATMs to receive American dollars and paying in American currency. Visa charges an exorbitant 3% for every transaction as a fee on top of a poor exchange rate. Discover gives a much better rate and charges no additional exchange fees. In addition our local U.S. bank offered a poorer exchange rate than the hotels in Costa Rica.
2) Hire local guides in any national park you visit. Not only is their knowledge of flora and fauna outstanding, but much of the wildlife is hard for an untrained eye to spot.
3) Monteverde temperatures can be cool. Bring a warm layer or two if you are traveling charges no additional exchange fees. In addition our local U.S. bank offered a poorer exchange rate than the hotels in Costa Rica.
there.
4) Many roads are steep, narrow and offer no guardrails. Ticos drive fast though generally quite well, hugging the curves tightly. Feel confident in both your navigation and driving if you chose to drive yourself.
5) Locals are wonderfully friendly in the countryside. Take your time to get to meet some.
6) Though we did not have any negative incidents in San Jose, we were told that it is moderately unsafe in many areas—plan accordingly.
7) Go on a night walk! Seeing a sloth climbing through the tress is a fabulous experience.
8) Try a new sport—zip lining is an unusual treat, surfing seems ideal of beginners with warm water and small waves, horseback riding is abundant, biking is a great way to see the countryside at a relaxed pace.
2) Hire local guides in any national park you visit. Not only is their knowledge of flora and fauna outstanding, but much of the wildlife is hard for an untrained eye to spot.
3) Monteverde temperatures can be cool. Bring a warm layer or two if you are traveling charges no additional exchange fees. In addition our local U.S. bank offered a poorer exchange rate than the hotels in Costa Rica.
there.
4) Many roads are steep, narrow and offer no guardrails. Ticos drive fast though generally quite well, hugging the curves tightly. Feel confident in both your navigation and driving if you chose to drive yourself.
5) Locals are wonderfully friendly in the countryside. Take your time to get to meet some.
6) Though we did not have any negative incidents in San Jose, we were told that it is moderately unsafe in many areas—plan accordingly.
7) Go on a night walk! Seeing a sloth climbing through the tress is a fabulous experience.
8) Try a new sport—zip lining is an unusual treat, surfing seems ideal of beginners with warm water and small waves, horseback riding is abundant, biking is a great way to see the countryside at a relaxed pace.
Weight and Speed Limits, Or Not
I didn’t have time to be melancholy about our tranquil vacation concluding— I was too stressed over not exceeding the baggage weight limit. I had known about the weight limit—20 lbs for checked bags and 10 lbs for carry-on— since before our departure, and worked to reduce our weight load from the get go. Unfortunately, I didn’t account for the natural weight gain of luggage in transit.
So there I was the night prior to departure eliminating shampoo and sunscreen bottles, magazines we’d read, extra plastic bags and even 2 pair of worn out sneakers and setting out the heaviest clothes for my family to wear.
Getting dressed in the a.m. my husband thought I was kidding as I handed him heavy cotton pants, a long-sleeved shirt, a thick sweatshirt and his windbreaker to wear.
“Do you know it’s 80ยบ out?” he commented dryly.
Sweat poured from his brow the moment my husband stepped outside. Perhaps having him suffer from heat exhaustion was not a good trade-off for our luggage accompanying us. He shed the sweatshirt and jacket and climbed in the cab and we were off.
Literally it seemed—the cab wheels nearly left the ground as the car hurtled towards the airport, or so we supposed.
We saw a sign pointing toward the airport and surprisingly, the cab driver turned the opposite direction. Could there truly be a back route? We had our answer soon enough as the cab pulled into the bus station. None of us opened a door.
“Bus station, yes?”
“No! Airport,” we responded in unison.
The driver peeled out of the bus station and now we truly were hurtling along the road. I turned to my daughter hoping she had learned a few necessities in her middle school Spanish class, such as, “please slow down, I don’t want to die on the way to the airport this morning.” No such luck, we flew along, tightly hugging the shoulder-less curves.
We all let out our breath as we turned into the airport, thankful to still be in one piece. Actually airport is a bit of an overstatement—it was more a large, 3-sided room beside a landing strip. Two pleasant surprised greeted us. First, thanks to our Mario Andretti driver, we had arrived before any other passengers; even before any airline personnel for that matter. And standing on the unattended check-in desk was a small sign stating:
All checked baggage shall not exceed 30 lbs.
“Well that’s good news,” I said turning to my husband, “You can pack the sweatshirt and windbreaker!” He and my daughters had already broken into peals of laughter.
At the airport early and underweight my worries ceased, but with my husband and children standing there laughing at me, my melancholy was not likely to return.
So there I was the night prior to departure eliminating shampoo and sunscreen bottles, magazines we’d read, extra plastic bags and even 2 pair of worn out sneakers and setting out the heaviest clothes for my family to wear.
Getting dressed in the a.m. my husband thought I was kidding as I handed him heavy cotton pants, a long-sleeved shirt, a thick sweatshirt and his windbreaker to wear.
“Do you know it’s 80ยบ out?” he commented dryly.
Sweat poured from his brow the moment my husband stepped outside. Perhaps having him suffer from heat exhaustion was not a good trade-off for our luggage accompanying us. He shed the sweatshirt and jacket and climbed in the cab and we were off.
Literally it seemed—the cab wheels nearly left the ground as the car hurtled towards the airport, or so we supposed.
We saw a sign pointing toward the airport and surprisingly, the cab driver turned the opposite direction. Could there truly be a back route? We had our answer soon enough as the cab pulled into the bus station. None of us opened a door.
“Bus station, yes?”
“No! Airport,” we responded in unison.
The driver peeled out of the bus station and now we truly were hurtling along the road. I turned to my daughter hoping she had learned a few necessities in her middle school Spanish class, such as, “please slow down, I don’t want to die on the way to the airport this morning.” No such luck, we flew along, tightly hugging the shoulder-less curves.
We all let out our breath as we turned into the airport, thankful to still be in one piece. Actually airport is a bit of an overstatement—it was more a large, 3-sided room beside a landing strip. Two pleasant surprised greeted us. First, thanks to our Mario Andretti driver, we had arrived before any other passengers; even before any airline personnel for that matter. And standing on the unattended check-in desk was a small sign stating:
All checked baggage shall not exceed 30 lbs.
“Well that’s good news,” I said turning to my husband, “You can pack the sweatshirt and windbreaker!” He and my daughters had already broken into peals of laughter.
At the airport early and underweight my worries ceased, but with my husband and children standing there laughing at me, my melancholy was not likely to return.
Taking up Surfing after Kids
Taking up new active sports successfully keeps me feeling young. Unfortunately the converse is also true. I tired snowboarding for the first time in my late 20s. Looking back it seems I was pretty young at the time, but I can tell you that 2 hours into my first snowboarding experience I was sitting by the side of the bunny hill, my tail bone bruised so badly I couldn’t stand up telling my boyfriend, “go on ahead, I’m just going to sit here and cry.”
This crystal clear memory came to the forefront when I was asked if I wanted to try surfing while in
Well that was pretty much the strategy of the surf instructor as well. He introduced me to my surfboard and we headed out into the surf to see what happened. The only technical instruction he gave before getting in the water was that I should push up with my arms from my paddling position right up to standing, no kneeling in the middle. With that piece of instruction, I caught my first wave. Okay, so technically, he caught the wave for me—giving my board a push at precisely the right moment so the wave’s momentum and mine were aligned. I won’t pretend to know the correct terminology here—no lesson time was wasted on terminology, this lesson was about creating a feeling of success—just what I was looking for. Well success wasn’t my primary feeling on that first wave. For such a simple process —standing up— in a fairly forgiving environment (water is indeed a much more forgiving landing than packed powder) I certainly made it look difficult. Suffice it to stay that if I went through the standing up stage, no one noticed.
Fortunately we had a whole hour in the surf for me to figure out how to stand on the board and for my instructor to try varying approaches to describing what should or shouldn’t be done. Yes, take a quick paddle. No, don’t kneel. Yes, push up hard with my arms. No, don’t stand too far forward. Yes, stay in the middle of the board. No, don’t slip too far backward. Yes, just keep trying.
Okay, I won’t be catching in big waves in my lifetime, but by the end of half an hour I had paddled myself beyond the (small) breakwater, gotten turned around and with minimal assistance caught a wave and successfully ridden it in, in a standing position. And after a full hour I had ‘ridden’ several waves in, in what certainly seemed to me to be surfing.
Proud of my accomplishments I was met by a surfing friend on the beach at the end of my lesson. “Great job—you have a really interesting surfing style,” she called out to me. “Interesting? Is that a euphemism for wrong?” “Not exactly,” she replied, “I’ve just never seen any face forward while surfing before!”
Well sideways or not it felt like surfing to me!
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